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by Dusty_Forgotten



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Angst, Chronic Pain, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-13
Updated: 2015-08-13
Packaged: 2018-04-14 13:58:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4567131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dusty_Forgotten/pseuds/Dusty_Forgotten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Courier hopes the chems are causing the headaches, and not the other way around.</p>
            </blockquote>





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He doesn’t remember a time before this: huffing Steady just so he can quit shaking long enough to jam the needle in his arm. Doesn’t remember his name, but it’s not important.

He’s got a headache. His life’s a headache.

Maybe it’s too many concussions from all the crazy shit he pulls when he’s on Psycho. At least, he hopes it is- wants to believe what Doc Whatsisface said, that he got all the shrapnel out. Chems are what’s fucking him up- not his own brain.

He really doesn’t remember much, between the chems and the migraines. Med-X does the job, but puts him to fuckin’ sleep, and when he does Jet, he comes down with a runny nose and a fuckton of caps, and some flickers of memories he never spends long thinking about before he shoots up again. No clue what he’s like on Psycho because he doesn’t recall a lick of it, but after a Psycho high, he finds himself taking a lot more Med-X than usual. He’s quit caring what he takes, so long as the headache stops.

He’s okay when he drinks. Pissed off because his brain’s throbbing and everything’s so goddamn loud, but he’s half-functioning, and that’s a miracle at this point. He can’t stay drunk long, though. Everyone keeps saying he’s “got a lot of nerve coming back, after what he’s done.” He doesn’t have a clue what he’s done, but they seem pretty set on making him pay for it. Then he’s slamming Psycho and double the stimpaks, and he forgets the whole goddamn thing.

Where the hell is he, again? Checks his Pip-Boy, says El Rey Motel. Doesn’t ring a bell, so he flicks to the world map, Near McCarran. How’d he get to McCarran?

Great, now his headache’s back. There’s gotta be another vial of Med-X around here, but he just keeps finding empties in the dark- won’t risk turning on the lights and worsening his migraine. Doesn’t realize a needle stabbed into his hand until he smacks it against the wall. If he can’t feel that, why the fuck does his head still hurt?

Something else he notices about the wall, though, from the dim glow of his Pip-Boy: there’s blood on it. Shit, is he hurt? He stumbles to his feet, and the bathroom. Fists the door open, and there he finds a number of things he really didn’t want to know.

There’s a body in the bathtub, dry blood streaked on the floor. He wonders how he didn’t smell that- looks of it, it’s been there a few days- but his nose is so stuffed up from all the Jet, it’s really no wonder at all. He steps a little closer; corpse is missing an arm, and the head’s sitting at the wrong end. There’s a grimy cleaver in the sink. He touches his chest, the sheath there. His own cleaver’s missing- and it looks like he just found it.

He grabs the sink to keep steady; his head pounds. Hey, maybe they were already dead. There’s a lot of syringes lying around in here. Maybe they were a junkie, came at him first. Self-defense. Maybe the fuck overdosed, and he just did some creepy shit with the body. Psycho gets you hopped like that.

He doesn’t want to think about it. He wants another shot of Jet, and enough Med-X to OD a bighorner. Fuck, wouldn’t that be nice?


End file.
